The Death Clock
by Anera527
Summary: LotR/HP crossover. "Titles have no importance here, but for confusion's sake, you may call me Frodo." Book-verse, both universes.
1. Chapter 1

"_**The Death Clock"**_

A/N: A LotR-HP crossover that hit me while at college and in the library. I hope this is an original story that you perhaps haven't read yet in another form. Enjoy!

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_Story books are full of fairy tales  
Of kings and queens and the bluest skies  
My heart is torn just in knowing  
You'll someday see the truth from lies_

_ -"In My Arms", _Plumb

The ropes seemed to burn into his skin, unkind and unforgiving, tight enough that they chafed the tender skin of his wrists and drew blood. His desperate struggles to free himself had released a copious amount of coppery red that now slickened his hold and crusted along his wrists. Always sensitive to the smell of blood, he choked against its sickening scent and grit his teeth, cursing for the umpteenth time the heartlessness of his captors.

Harry Potter was not in a good mood. In fact, to say that Harry Potter was not in a good mood would be a massive understatement. No, Harry Potter was not just in a bad mood.

Harry Potter was royally and totally pissed off.

Laying his head down upon the cold, hard floor of his prison, Harry cursed Dumbledore, Hermione, Ron, the Weasleys, his godfather Sirius, and the whole of the Wizarding world itself. It was they who had abandoned him, they who had pretended to care for him, they who had driven him into the arms of Darkness. It was they who condemned him now. Why hadn't they just killed him when he fought by Voldemort's side at the battle at Hogwarts? Why hadn't they just killed him as they had the rest of the Dark Lord's followers?

He knew why, of course. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, now the Boy-Who-Betrayed, the hope of the Wizarding world turned Dark and savage. Now, he was to be led through the streets like a pig to slaughter, fodder for those who hated him, laughed at and ridiculed before he was finally sentenced to an eternity in Hell. He was to be carrion for the vultures to pick. The wolves had descended upon him, ready to tear him to pieces if he as much as made a move to escape from their hold.

He hated them all. He hated them, scorned them, feared them, missed them, and loved them. He wanted to kill them, those who had once been his friends and family. He had found sweet, beautiful freedom in the Dark, such relief from his burdens, that now he found he could not readily free himself from its cloying influence.

He didn't think he wanted to, either.

Again, he tried to free himself of the ropes binding his arms, but they were just as tight and cruel as before.

"Potter!"

The rough growl of a voice jerked his attention from the bonds to the doorway of his cell, where an Auror looked in through the bars.

"Trying to escape, are you, Potter?" he hard-eyed man snarled, and Harry felt hatred bubble in his stomach. He knew this Auror, by reputation, as quick to anger and violent while in a fury. Although powerful as a wizard, and physically fit, Harry was tied up, exhausted, bruised from the battle, and wandless. He had little defense against this man.

His dignity and temper would not allow him to lie there and take the verbal jabs, however. "So what if I am?" he retorted. "Think you can stop me?"

The Auror's face darkened with rising fury. "Is that a challenge?"

Flushed, as angry as his accuser, Harry did not respond with words. Instead, he spat in the direction of the door, and it was a good shot—the spittle struck the man in the face. With a furious outcry, the Auror recoiled, instinctively reaching to scrub at his face, and when he locked gazes with Harry his eyes were hot with murder.

"You son of a bitch!" In seconds the door was flung open and in two long strides he was at Harry's side. Viciously he struck out, solidly kicking Harry under the chin.

Stars exploded in front of the young wizard's eyes, and he felt his head slam back into the floor. Dazed and in pain, he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, and rolled with the momentum, but the enraged Auror followed him and struck him again and again, not allowing Harry a respite. Screaming obscenities, he allowed his anger to guide him.

And little by little, Harry started to lose his hold on consciousness. Pain muddled his senses, caused all sound to run together and buzz in his ears. His eyesight began to darken, and still the Auror came on. Agony riddled his body, and when he started to cough, he felt warm, coppery-scented wetness run between his lips and from his nose. He curled into a small, protective ball, and he fancied he could hear through the buzzing in his ears and the Auror's insults someone calling out, screaming for a halt—

And then the room spun and everything went black.

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The feel of a cold cloth on his forehead brought him back to consciousness, but Harry found out immediately that perhaps it would have been better if he had stayed in black oblivion. His whole body ached and throbbed, a headache was pounding behind his eyes, and he felt like he needed to throw up. He groaned between gritted teeth, unwilling to open his eyes. Surely it was the healer woman from before that the Ministry had gotten to look over his wounds from the battle before who was with him now, and he didn't need to see the look of fear and disgust she would undoubtedly send him if she knew he was awake. Not that that bothered him, mind you. They were right to fear him.

"_Everything follows fright, Potter,"_ Voldemort had told him during his training. _"Lay the basis of fear, and everything will follow after."_

"Ah! Good, then, you're awake!" came an unfamiliar voice, and Harry's eyes very nearly snapped open in shock. That was not the nurse's voice! This was a male's, and unlike any other he'd ever heard before. It was soft, melodious, and spoke of peace. The Darkness hissed at that voice, hated it, and Harry tensed in spite of himself. He heard the soft voice chuckle, and the cloth on his forehead started to dab away the sweat from his face. His body felt riddled with fever, and he groaned again. "Hush," the voice soothed gently. "You have been long in coming, Harry Potter—we have waited for this moment a long time past."

What in Merlin's name-? Shocked, his eyes snapped open, and immediately cried out in agony, his hands—somehow unbound—flying up to cover his face. Blinding white shone all around him, endless and pure, and his shattered soul shuddered in the light. His aching body protested his abrupt movements, and he felt himself stiffen under the pain that surged forward. He felt confusion rise within him—he still felt the cool cloth on his skin but could not see anyone or anything, just the same blinding whiteness.

"Who's there?" he called out, and his tone was hoarse and dry, and he winced as pain throbbed in his throat. His hands, still shielding his smarting eyes, he looked around.

"No one of importance, Harry," came the voice again, amusement lacing its tone. "Titles have no importance here, but for confusion's sake, you may call me Frodo."

"And what kind of name is that?" Harry snarled, still trying to shield himself from the light. He was in no mood to be courteous.

But his caretaker merely laughed again. "And what, pray, is such a name as "Harry"?" he countered. ""Hair" should describe that which is on your head, or our feet. It should not be a name."

"It was the name my parents chose!" Harry snapped, still looking in vain for whoever it was he was speaking to.

"And so my name was as well," the other answered gently, "so let us lay the matter of names to rest, shall we?"

"What do you want?" Harry demanded angrily. "Why am I here?"

There came another chuckle, and he felt the cloth wipe his forehead. "You're quite impatient, aren't you? Quite used to being answered immediately, everything you wanted brought to you by your Lord's hand. Voldemort spoiled you quite thoroughly."

"You dare to speak the Dark Lord's name?" Harry hissed, feeling fury pounding through his limbs. None should speak thus! "I could kill you for that and enjoy it!"

But again his caretaker spurned his attempts to bait him into an argument. "How can you kill that which is beyond a mortal's reach? Of course I dare to speak Voldemort's name—it is so tiring to refer to him as the Dark Lord as it so unoriginal, even if "Voldemort" is utterly ridiculous as well." There was a pause, then: "I always thought Tom was a much better name. You called him Voldemort once upon a time."

"Before I realized my folly calling him such!" Harry retorted, his anger still throbbing. Then his headache spiked, and he groaned again, closing his eyes behind his hands. "What happened?" he ground out.

"You were injured grievously by the Auror you provoked. You have a concussion, a ruptured appendix, two broken and three cracked ribs, and a cracked skull. You are being helped, but it'll be a close thing. Your wounds have become infected. I'm sorry you had to meet us injured as you are, but perhaps that's the whole reason you're here now."

"Speak plainer!" Harry snapped. "I have no patience for riddles!"

"Then it is a good thing you are not speaking to Gandalf," came the smooth reply, and Harry, to his irritation, realized he was sparring with a master. He tried for a different tact.

'Please, could you just tell me where I am?"

There came again the laugh that sent the Darkness screaming again in fury. "What a silly question, my dear wizard! Why, you rival a Took in inquisitiveness! Of course I cannot tell you where we are, since I myself really have no idea either! The most I could tell you is that we are beyond the Circles of the Earth, far beyond the reach of mortal lives."

Harry blinked. "So… we're in the Afterlife?"

"In a manner of speaking. This is not the Afterlife for you—this is a place for you to purge yourself of the evil you allowed to mar your being."

"A place to purge my— oh damn it all, are you really going into the Catholic rubbish of _purgatory_? That's bullshit, all of it!"

"This is not Hell, whatever you may think," came "Frodo's" reply. "You will not even be here all the time. In fact, you will be waking soon. Before you do, I must tell you—you have a limited amount of time to set things to right between those you once loved. Use well the days!"

Harry thought his skull might explode with the stupid riddles his company was giving him, and he glared heatedly through his fingers. "And that's supposed to help me?"

Something in the light shifted, and Harry had the weirdest sense that his caretaker was frowning, suddenly completely serious, and the Darkness in his soul cowered as a chill shivered up his spine.

"It will have to, if you have any hope for your imperishable soul."


	2. Chapter 2

"_**Chapter 2"**_

When Harry came back to himself, he very nearly did throw up. The pain he felt in his stomach and chest was unbearable, worse than any Crucio curse, and he could feel from the clammy sweat on his skin that he was clearly burning with fever. He tried to move his limbs, but found he didn't have the strength, and he wasn't sure if he should move. His head felt heavy and clotted.

Well. At least he didn't have to worry about any bright light or a person he couldn't even see.

Stupid fever, it had been giving him hallucinations! Because that was what Harry decided that mysterious thing was—a hallucination brought upon by the fever that had developed. There was no place called "purgatory", no person called "Frodo", and sure as hell no "limited amount of time". There was nothing called Destiny, nothing Up There that decided what happened in your life! It was just you, yourself, and your own ideas! That was the whole reason why Harry had turned to the Dark in the first place: He had gotten sick and tired of carrying others' burdens, carrying the weight of the world on his back. It had been a release to fall to the dark, which even now whispered to him, giving him strength. He didn't need anything else! He didn't need his old friends, didn't need his old homes, didn't need anyone but himself!

A particularly harsh stab of pain flowed through his chest, and he felt the breath hitch in his throat and he groaned again. His senses were still muddled and confused, his ears full of cotton, his eyes throbbing with a stabbing headache.

"…coming to-" he heard a voice say quickly. He wanted to shove them away—they were speaking too loud!

"Good… make it easier… -trial's as soon as he's better…"

Trial? His scrambled ears had caught that word, at least. So, the Ministry was going to lead the circus as soon as he improved in his condition, were they? He almost snorted. He'd like to see them try.

He felt hands carefully probing his side, and he wanted to reach up and bat the fingers away, wanted to break them for touching him. But he didn't have the strength to do so, and he didn't think he could manipulate the mind to do what the body could not. Hmm. Interesting idea. Maybe he should try to work on that…

Another stab of pain, this time above his right eye, made him cry out softly, merely a short breathy exclamation that could be barely heard, and for one instant, he thought he saw a flash of bright light. A frown.

_Stupid light._

But to his horror the light had seemed to ease some of his pain. He recoiled from its touch, unwilling for its purity to touch him. His soul shrank in revulsion and fear, and its shrieking for the moment successfully covered up the whisper of longing that still resided deep within him, boxed away and silenced all through those months of Darkness and death.

"_It will have to, if you have any hope for your imperishable soul."_

What had the creature meant when saying that? Come to think of it, was "Frodo" even human? What was an imperishable soul? And hope? Harry had given up on hope years ago, so long ago it was like a long-forsaken relation. He had his anger and hate now, and that was enough.

Wasn't it?

He squashed the question before it could take hold, burying it deep within himself and banishing it with the whisper.

He tried to shift where he lay, and nearly gasped at the pain that surged up his body and down his legs. What had he been told ruptured? His appendix? Yes, that was it. And injured ribs and a concussion. Nasty injuries… certainly some of the worst he had received. He nearly laughed to himself—when had he _not_ received grievous injuries?

His mind, although feverish, continued to drift back to the creature he had met. Mysterious, with its annoying riddles. Infuriating, in its supremacy and unwillingness to show the Dark Lord proper respect. He couldn't deny a certain respect for it, however, with its cheek and quick tongue. Not many foes Harry had met were that quick-witted. And there was still the way it had so easily unsettled him—just with a frown! Nobody should have that much ability to affect another in such a way! Why was this "Frodo" any different? Why was he so different that he could cause Harry's whole being to quake in a way not even Voldemort had been able to?

"_Perhaps it's because he's not what you were really looking for?" _the whisper asked him before he could shove it away. It was his own voice that spoke to him, not anyone else's, but it still made him freeze as the sentence's full impact hit him.

_Perhaps…_

Perhaps.

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A/N: Confused? Sorry, this was the ramblings of Harry's feverish mind, next chapter we'll see the full extent of his crimes and maybe even get another glimpse of our little hobbit guest!

By the way, this will _not be slash!_ In all honesty, think of Frodo's role in this fanfic like that of a priest or pastor performing the Last Rites.


	3. Chapter 3

"_**Chapter 3"**_

Finding himself awake was not something he was pleased about, not at all. Even his half-delirious state born from his fever had been better than this. He had been able to lose himself and forget everything that had happened, and perhaps reflect on what was going to happen. Now, however, he had regained his senses and could not escape reality. He was captured by the Ministry, held in a cell, and undoubtedly facing a sham of a trial and finally sentenced to death.

As Voldemort's right-hand man, there could be no other fate for him.

He had joined the Dark Lord in his sixth year, when he had begun to suspect something that had been tickling the back of his mind for months, ever since the third challenge in the Triwizard Tournament. _"I, who had gone farther than any other to make sure of my immortality," _Voldemort had said to the Death Eaters, and that had begun to make Harry curious to know what he had spoken about. Then, Dumbledore had told him his theory of Horcruxes, and Harry had realized with icy horror that he was a Horcrux, and he had also come to understand that Dumbledore expected him to lay down his life to destroy it. The betrayal of the Headmaster had infuriated him, and so he turned to the only one he could think of—Voldemort himself. He had told the Dark Lord everything, including the truth of his connection with Voldemort's mind, and the Dark Lord had taken him in.

It had come as a nasty shock to the great and powerful Albus Dumbledore that his sacrificial lamb was not so eager to be sacrificed.

To be entirely truthful, the thought of death had always frightened Harry—not so much that he would seek immortality, but he had always been frightened of what could come after death. Would there even be anything? There were too many unknown factors in the subject of "death", and Harry didn't like that. He knew that Man was supposed to die, it was only natural, but he wanted it to be on his own terms, his own actions.

Hermione came to visit him later that day.

"Harry, what happened to you?" she whispered through the bars. She stood looking very small outside his door, her large brown eyes filled with tears. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her head bent a little. Her hair was just as bushy and out of control as it had always been, but he could see one difference—there was an engagement ring on her finger.

Looking down at her—he had grown substantially and stood nearly a head taller—he almost made a sarcastic reply, but found he couldn't. He still felt shaky from the fever he'd had, and he was sure he looked haggard and unkempt. Besides, he knew what she was really asking. "Betrayal," he said in a low hiss of fury, and she quailed beneath his ferocious gaze, but she didn't back down. "Your precious Headmaster was using me, Hermione. All of you were using me! All you all cared about was the fame, what you could get from being friends with the famous Harry Potter!"

Hermione's head snapped up. "What?!" she cried, looking stricken. "No—Harry, no, how could you even think that? Why would we ever—"

"Then tell me why Dumbledore did what he did!" he snarled, feeling fury pounding through him.

She reached through the bars, her tears finally escaping her hold. "Why would we use you, Harry? Ron and I, we were your friends, we cared for you! We went with you everywhere, we were there for you—"

"You weren't there when I needed you the most! Not even in sixth year—you were off pining about Ron, and Ron was off with Lavender, and I was trying to make sense of Dumbledore's lessons, and you _never even asked _what was wrong! You should have noticed. Why didn't you notice?"

His voice, so full of anger a second before, was now full of aching sadness, and something in his tone was that of a pleading child asking why the only family he'd known didn't notice something was wrong. There was hurt, betrayal, in that voice, and suddenly Hermione saw he was not so evil. She reached through the bars again and gripped his hand. His skin was cold.

"Tell me what happened," she said softly, pleading as well.

And he did. He told her everything, coldly and bitingly, making her flinch in his anger. She had placed the Silencing Charm on them so they could not be overheard, and in the matter of minutes she had been told about his discovering the Horcruxes, his seeking out Voldemort, his months of training and finally his missions in the Dark Lord's name. Ashen, she could only look at him in open anguish as he stopped speaking.

"I'm so sorry," she finally whispered, her voice choked with tears. "If I had only asked… and now there won't be a respite."

"Still calling for my blood, are they?" he asked coldly.

She nodded. "The minister has called for a trial in two days' time. It- it doesn't look good, Harry. You did so many things…"

"And the Dark Lord?"

She flinched. "He will be tried after you. The Ministry wants to get you out of the way first—maybe to show Voldemort that he really has lost."

"Don't use his name!" he exclaimed furiously.

Surprisingly, she flared at this. "And why shouldn't I?" she retorted. "You did, once, and without fear!"

"_You called him Voldemort once upon a time." _The small rebuke echoed in his mind and he shook his head to clear it. "That's what he said," he found himself muttering angrily. He didn't want to remember that!

Hermione had caught his sentence. "Harry?" She frowned. "Who is _he_?"

Caught, he stared at her through the bars, and blushed slightly. "Nothing," he answered, somewhat sullenly. "I was delirious, out of my head."

"What happened?" Her curiosity was piqued.

He shook his head, blushing harder. "I woke up to this white light, I couldn't see anything, although I could feel I was lying on something, and I could feel a cool washcloth on my head, and when I asked where I was, a voice started to speak to me, speaking to me in riddles and not making any sense! He was annoying and impertinent and unhelpful—and he never spoke plainly. Everything was a riddle."

"Yes, I caught that," she said wryly. "Did he say his name?" She was humoring him, he could tell, thinking this only the ramblings of a delirious mind.

He frowned. "It was strange, completely foreign—Frodo, or something- Hermione?" He interrupted himself when she suddenly stepped backwards, her eyes widening in shock. He hated the concern he felt rising up inside him, but now he reached for her, since she looked like she was going to fall over. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

She looked at him in dumbstruck silence for a long moment, and then spoke in a quavering voice. "Did you say his name was _Frodo_?" she whispered. "Did he say any other names, did you speak to anyone else?"

He recognized that look in her eyes—she was piecing together the puzzle in her brilliant mind. Clearly she knew something he didn't, since it seemed she knew the name.

"No," he said slowly. "I don't think s… wait, there was something. Gandelf or something like that—"

"Gandalf?" she squeaked, and this time she really would have fallen if he hadn't caught her. She looked up at him with shock and amazement and, surprisingly, awe. "Harry, you were speaking to Frodo Baggins!"

"Who?" he asked blankly.

"A character in a book!" she replied, looking excited. "A famous book, _Lord of the Rings_ by J.R.R. Tolkien! It's been a classic of literature for decades, ever since its release!"

"Wait, you're saying I was talking to a fictional character?" he asked, and he couldn't help the disbelief in his voice, and he began to laugh. "Hermione, that's the most absurd thing you've ever said! You're telling me I was talking to a fictional character written in a book! How crazy is that?"

"Not so crazy," she muttered, her eyes lit with growing excitement. "Yes," she said to herself, lost in contemplation. "Perhaps the Red Book really did exist… and maybe the Professor found it! Maybe he even went to middle-earth himself! He wrote the story as a history of England long since forgotten, anyway…" She looked up at Harry, and she was suddenly smiling. "I don't think you were delirious at all!" she exclaimed, and he saw to his shock that she really was telling him the truth.

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"So it seems I have been found out," came Frodo's voice through the whiteness. His tone was laced with amusement, and Harry thought perhaps he was laughing.

He had fallen asleep in his cell after Hermione's visit, and he had found himself here again… wherever the hell here was. To his confusion, the light had dissolved somewhat into mist, still bright, still thick, so that he couldn't see anything but vague shapes. "I must say, Hermione Granger really is an amazing young woman. I would love to see her speak with Aragorn or Gandalf. _I_ would like to speak with her."

"She betrayed me," Harry said, but he didn't seem as vicious saying it anymore. He knew he was already losing his hatred towards her. She had seemed so genuinely sorry, so scared for him. Perhaps she hadn't…

But he ruthlessly shoved aside that thought. He wouldn't allow himself any pity for her.

"'Betrayed' is a harsh word," came the reply, softly-spoken but firm. "She didn't notice, yes, but you were very good at hiding your feelings, were you not? Is it really her fault? Was it anyone's fault?"

"_Someone_ was at fault," Harry said tiredly.

"_Everyone_ was at fault," Frodo replied. "All of you share some level of blame in this situation. But saying she betrayed you is something you should not say on a whim—she did not, in fact, betray you. Betrayal is what Smeagol did on my journey, going back on his sworn promise and tricking Sam and I into going a spider's den to our deaths."

"And you're just a fictional character, so I'm probably just going insane."

"Who said our story was fictional?" came Frodo's reply. "Your Hermione was correct in her thoughts. The Red Book was, in fact, real, and the Professor really did find it. He found us, in Middle-earth, which was what you call England. But Arda has now faded away until nothing exists of it, and even the Undying Lands are undersea. The Elves did, in fact, find death. But of course they predicted they would live until the ending of the world, and they did—_their_ world."

"But isn't death something they didn't understand, being immortal?"

"It was," Frodo agreed. "And I am glad to see that you are beginning to understand as well. They knew that, eventually, they would come to an end, just as everything else does. I must say, though, that it was something of a shock for those in the Undying Lands to witness the deaths of four mortals." He chuckled, and Harry flinched away again at the sound, at its purity. "I existed as much as you do now, Harry, although my grave has long since been gone. And I don't mind being thought of as a fictional character at all, as long as the morality of our story endures. Still people are learning from it, and their lives changed because it taught them something. I cannot ask for more."

"You must have been an annoyingly humble creature in life," Harry said wryly, but without any real venom, "if you speak like that."

"Oh but I wasn't," came the bright reply. "In fact, I was astonishingly arrogant as much as I was humble. For many years I felt cheated out of becoming a hero since I failed at casting away my Burden, a fact that no one ever saw except myself, and at the end I was foolish enough to challenge Death. I had grown attached to Life and was afraid to let go, and I swore to the Moon that death would not take me. But it did, and only after I accepted it."

"You were afraid of death?" Harry asked, surprised. He had not thought that about Frodo.

"Oh yes. It is only natural to be intimidated by that which you cannot wholly understand."

_Like Voldemort,_ Harry thought to himself, and then clamped down on that before he could fully explore it. That was dangerous territory to think about. He was still betrayed, wasn't he? Why should he be thinking like that?

A/N: This is the longest chapter I've ever written. Wow. This chapter, and Frodo's fear of death, is inspired by "A Passage to the West" by illyria-pffyffin—an amazing story, I suggest you read it!


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